An insistent buzzing slowly erased the dreams of ballroom dances and Prince Charming. The vivid red and black ballroom became increasingly replaced with the washed out tones of studio apartment four. Rebecca Lowless forced open her eyes in disgust. Without her glasses she couldn’t make out the wall clock, but her body told her that it was early. She rolled to her left and focused on the bedside table. The simple red lines of her clock read 4:45 a.m. She tried to ignore the cry of the phone, but the task proved impossible. She jerked the dingy white receiver from its cradle and pressed it to the side of her face.
“What?” “Think you could be a little longer in answerin’ the phone, Becky?” All too familiar, the cheerful voice irritated Rebecca’s ears worse than the phone’s ringing. “Mother. What the hell do you want?” “Such language from such a sweet young lady,” her mother punctuated the response with a disdainful cluck of her tongue. Rebecca steadied herself by gripping the blue-flower bedspread. “Cut the bullshit Mother. Just tell me what I’m doing up at five o’fucking clock in the God-damned morning. And it better be good.” “Oh, it’s good Becky, dear. It’s about my birthday.” Rebecca listened as her mother explained the call. Her mother turned fifty next week, and she wanted a special gift from her eldest daughter. A smile spread across Rebecca’s face as she listened to the details. Nearing the mid-century mark, Mrs. David Lowless had decided that life had ceased to be an adventure for her. She explained to her oldest daughter that already she could feel old age dragging her down. She could feel the grasp of the grave, as she put it. Of course, Mrs. David Lowless couldn’t rely on Matt or Sylvia, Rebecca’s younger siblings, but Rebecca was different. “So, what do you think, Becky? Think you could give your mother this final gift?” “Sure.” r r r r r Amongst the racks of orange camouflage suits and mounted deer heads, Rebecca felt out of place. She had learned the basics of handling and firing a shotgun, an important part of every southern Mississippi kid’s training, but she hadn’t owned a gun since she left the family farm. Eventually, the kid behind the counter noticed her distress and loped over to help her. “’Scuse me, ma’am, but’s there sompthin’ I can help ya with?” She set her eyes on his scuffed, steel-toed boots, avoiding his face. “Well, see, I need a gift for my boyfriend. He likes to hunt, so I was thinking maybe a shotgun would, you know, be nice. Could you help me find a good one?” The lie was easy and believable. “I might could be able to do that ma’am. We got plenty a models to choose from, y’know. How high ya willin’ to go?” “How much does the best cost?” She ventured a glance at the kid’s face; it seemed to acknowledge that here was a woman who could please a sensible man. “Well, now, ma’am, really depends on what yer man likes to hunt.” She explained that she wasn’t sure, and he frowned a little in disappointment. In the end, she picked a Mossberg 500. An expensive gun, but the money didn’t matter to Rebecca at this point. She paid for the shotgun and a couple boxes of shells, knowing that she would only need one shell. r r r r r November second arrived, and Mrs. David Lowless turned fifty surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Sylvia, the youngest of the Lowless’ children, had planned the little affair. When Rebecca passed through the door unannounced, both Sylvia and her brother, Matt, glanced at one another, shock and unease on their faces. The glance didn’t go unnoticed by Rebecca; it only made her smile widen. She knew they worried that she would create disaster, but she had decided to give the condemned one last good time. For once, a Lowless’ family gathering was smooth not stormy. After the cake, the adults retired to the back patio reminiscing over iced tea about their shared past. The conversation ceased when the birthday girl plucked a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Ignoring the silence, she began awkwardly inhaling the smoke. Sylvia spoke first, “Mother?” Their mother continued to ignore their surprise. She focused on drawing in small breaths of the smoke and then exhaling them in a noxious puff. Sylvia turned to Matt for help. “Mother. I think what Sylvia was trying to say. . .well, Mom, why are you smoking? You don’t smoke.” “Don’t mean I can’t.” “But why now? You’re getting older. It’s time to start looking after your health. You know smoking is bad for you.” “Come on Matt. Leave Mom be, she’s entitled to a little sin after raising us three,” Rebecca said. Rebecca’s surprise defense of her mother successfully silenced Sylvia, but Matt wasn’t as easily hushed. “But Rebecca, come on, it’s not good for her. Mom, look what it did to David.” Rebecca felt her face grimace as she turned to her brother. He seemed to sense her displeasure and amended his statement. “I mean Dad. Look what it did to Dad.” Still, she puffed until nothing but the filter remained. “I’m not going to live forever. Might’s well try a few things.” She left her children and went inside to play Grandma to Matt’s children. Rebecca wished her mother happy birthday once more and left the family to finish the festivities. She had to talk to someone. r r r r r Once free of the cramped atmosphere of the party, Rebecca headed South. In the passenger seat of her jeep, lay the gift for her mother. She would need it later and wouldn’t have time to stop by her apartment to retrieve it. Just West of Biolixi, most of the Lowless’ ancestors rested in the ground. Originally, they had owned the hundred acres surrounding the burial ground. But in 1870, the family had begun to sell off plots in order to avoid the post-war destitution so common in the South. By the time David Lowless was old enough to own his own land, he had to settle in Pas Christian at another of the family’s property holdings. All that remained of the Lowless estate near Biolixi, was the graveyard. In this graveyard, David Lowless had been buried, and it was to him that Rebecca went after the party. She drove her jeep down the dirt path and parked it outside the tiny wrought-iron fence. One side of the grave yard, remained sheltered by a grove of stout oak trees; David Lowless’ headstone was near the trees. She sat in front of his grave concentrating on the moss-mottled stone. In her mind, she conjured up the last image she had of her father. The image blurred as a figure in the woods attracted her eye. Out of the woods, a tremendous man with whitening hair stepped towards her. They surveyed one another, and as their eyes met, Rebecca spoke. “Father?” “What did you come here for?” She forced her tears back, focusing on the words. “I need to talk to you.” “About what?” “Mom,” she managed. The man remained completely still; out of necessity to speak, his mouth was all that moved. “About your mother?” She had to fight hard not to run to the man and embrace him. Her mouth remained mute, though she so wanted to speak. She wanted to tell him how she hated her mother, hated the way she treated him. But she couldn’t find her mouth muscles in time. The man spoke once more. “I never knew your mother.” Then he disappeared into the woods leaving her alone with the headstones. She could no longer hold back her tears. Crying, she sat across form her father’s grave until her watch alarm beeped announcing a new hour. It was almost time. She wiped away the tears, collected her thoughts, and moved towards the parked jeep. r r r r r Back in her jeep, she headed southwest, away from Biolixi towards Pas Christian. She stopped for a bathroom where the road forked in so many possible directions. North would lead her back to her apartment. To the west lay mysteries. South would take her to Pas Christian and her expectant mother. She sat looking at the road for five minutes while she drank the convenience store soda pop she had bought. As the last of the syrupy liquid traced down her throat, she started the engine and turned South. The road to the Gulf of Mexico lead past the house of her childhood. She slowed the jeep to a crawl as she drove down the old street. All she could see through the bald cypresses garlanded with Spanish moss, were patches of white. Without thinking, she signaled a left turn and angled the jeep down the bamboo lined drive. She could feel the gravel crunch under the jeep’s tires and remembered her first “driving” lessons. Perched on her mother’s lap, she had carefully guided the battered Ford pickup down the drive. The ditch on the right side had been perilous in those days, but now it seemed a trivial threat. Rebecca knew there existed dangers deeper than drainage ditches. The miniature swing bridge across the drainage ditch still linked the driveway to the main grounds. She considered crossing the bridge, but it looked ready to collapse. She walked to the edge of the ditch and surveyed its contents. Although the ditch was dry, she still looked for any gators or snakes that might be lurking in the ditch bed. She remembered one summer when a six foot gator had remained stuck for a month after flooding. Every morning, it would greet her with a villainous hiss. From then on, she never forgot to check the ditch first. Once across the ditch, she looked at the crumbling white plantation house that had been a part of the nation’s history as well as her own. The boarded windows and sunken in roof told of long years of desertion. She wondered if anyone had lived in the old house after they had moved. Rebecca and her father had never wanted to leave, but her mother had thought she hated life on the coast. She walked behind the remains of the servant quarters looking for the old stone bench. The bench remained, but the willow that had shaded the spot for many years lay rotting on the ground. Honeysuckle still grew along the property wall, and she plucked some. The sweet sap of the honeysuckle made her feel eight years old again, wishing only that her father would turn one of the old coup houses into a playhouse as he had always promised. She spent the remaining time before seven-thirty, the hour of her errand, lost in a time warp of reflection. During their years on the coast, her father had spent more time at work than he did at home. Rebecca blamed her mother for his absence. He loved the woman and wanted nothing more than to please her. Her brother was only two when the family left the coast, so Rebecca had been her mother’s only company. Her mother would stage “tea parties” at which Rebecca and herself were the only visible guest. Still, her mother would talk to the vacant chairs as if people really sat there. When her father had the time, he would take her out of the house for adventures. In retrospect, she thought of those times with her father as her sanity time. Only once did she and her father ever cross swords. The day had been hot, close, humid; the kind of day in the South that can only mean rain. Rebecca had spent most of the day outdoors avoiding her mother. The rain didn’t immediately send her indoors, but when the storm signaled its seriousness with thunderclaps and lightning, she had no choice but to retreat indoors. In the front room, her mother slept on the sofa. Rebecca eased the door shut and tiptoed as far as the stairway before her mother’s eyes opened. “Becky! You’re just in time for tea. Beverleigh-Ann and Mary Jo are already in the parlor. Won’t you be a good girl and get the china.” Rebecca muttered, “Yes ma’am,” and headed toward the kitchen. In the parlor, her mother sat talking to the empty chairs as if each contained a vivacious presence. Rebecca set the china around the table and quickly poured tea into each cup. Slumping into the chair next to her mother, she sipped her own cup of tea. “Becky, dear. Why don’t you tell Ms. Mary Jo what you’ve learned in school this past year.” Rebecca began to recite the list of her learnings, but caught her tongue before the words escaped. “Mother! There’s no one there! There’s no one at all in this room, but you and me!” Her mother glanced worriedly at her guests and apologized for her impudent daughter. Rebecca could stand it no longer. She lifted her own china cup and flung it in the direction of Ms. Mary Jo. Bits of blue and white china exploded against the wall. She continued throwing more and more of the cups and saucers. Screaming the whole time that the people didn’t exist. She soon ran out of china and could only stare at her mother. Her mother’s mouth moved; but through the silence, Rebecca didn’t hear a word. Neither of her parents had ever raised a hand to her, but the look in her mother’s eyes threatened a dark purpose. Rebecca turned from her mother, turned from the house, and ran into the rain. She ran till her legs felt rubbery and vomited behind a shed. From what she could see, she figured she was out by the trainyard, a long way from home. She entered one of the boxcars for shelter, never intending to use it to run away. She collapsed into a deep sleep. Only the jerky lurching of the train woke her. The train was stopping, but she didn’t know where. When the train slowed enough, she jumped out of the car. The train had taken her to a small, Northern, Mississippi town. She could never remember the name of that town; it was the only detail time had stolen from her. An elderly man at the gas station that she went into made the call to her parents for her. Tears in her eyes, she ran to her father for comfort. Instead, her father refused his daughter’s embrace and turned her over his knee. Her crying grew uncontrollable and her father stopped. “David. Don’t you think you’re being a little hard on her?” “Kathleen, the girl’s got to learn what’s respectable. We can’t let her get away with this kind of behavior.” “Daddy. . .I’m-m-m sorry.” She looked up to her father through her tears. He only turned to the truck and walked away. That wasn’t the only time she rebelled against her parent’s wishes, but it was the only time her father ever seemed angry at her. They returned home, and Rebecca never had another tea party with her mother. The times there hadn’t always been pleasant, but this place owned her soul. The move to Ohio had been devastating. Devastating to her, to her parent’s marriage, and to what little sense of family they’d had. Ohio hadn’t made her mother happy, even though she was the main reason they had moved. She took a moment and glanced at her watch. The late hour dismayed her. She didn’t want to go, didn’t want to leave this place again. But she forced herself to rise and started to walk back to the jeep without a backward glance. r r r r r The drive from her old home to the deserted stretch of the Gulf Coast was over too soon for Rebecca. Not much had changed since her exodus. Robert E. Lee Elementary, Fu Ling’s China Diner, the Captain’s Cove. Places where she she’d spent her youth. Only the apartment complex being constructed on the old ruins left by Hurricane Camile seemed alien. Then, she reached the shore. With the ocean in front of her, there was nowhere left to drive. A single figure stood watching the winter waves stretch upon the sand and return to fill the ocean again. Rebecca recognized the figure by the oversized straw sombrero, the kind of hats beachcombers wear. During a visit to her grandparents in Texas, one of their little excursions had been across the border. When she was six years old, she bought that hat as a gift for her mother. She knew the sombrero had MEXICO stitched in blocky red letters and a simple yarn picture of a cactus. She eased the jeep onto the beach and killed the engine. The place was too familiar to Rebecca. On these shifting sands, she had organized her first secret club, and on one hot night, lost her virginity. Here, the bent figure of her mother seemed an anomaly. The only image that could keep her from the past. The birthday gift lay beside her on the jeep’s passenger seat. She felt revenge and even the last traces of mercy leave her. She sat staring at the whitecaps—wondering how she could have thought that this would be easy. How could she do it? How could she give this last gift to her mother? She cursed the tears coursing down her warm cheeks. “You’ve got a job to do, Becky. Are you gonna give me that gift or wallow there in that jeep, ya little bitch?” The barb found its mark. As her mother turned from the jeep back to the ocean, Rebecca raised the shotgun off the seat. A cry: “My name is Rebecca!” A shotgun report, then the sounds of advancing tide and seagulls.
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